


Arthur Was There

by Squintern



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reverse Chronology, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squintern/pseuds/Squintern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cobb was at home. Saito was in a business meeting. Yusuf was in his lab. Ariadne was on a plane. And Arthur, Arthur was there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur Was There

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I was debating whether or not I wanted to post this one because, well, sad (and I wasn't sure if I liked it very much). But, clearly, I decided to anyway and I didn't want to post it yesterday on Christmas because it just felt wrong. I hope you lot like it anyway. And forgive me.

Cobb was at home.

It was a popular belief in the dreamshare community that Arthur and Cobb were friends. This was untrue. Cobb and Arthur worked fairly well together. Arthur was always looking for the most talented people for his teams and Cobb counted as one of those. Arthur had always been the one to call Cobb in for jobs, but Cobb turned him down more often than not because first there was Mal, then there was the children. When Cobb went on the run, Arthur recognized him as a free agent and hired him on as many jobs as he could. Even after realizing there was serious instability on Cobb’s part in the wake of Mal’s death, Arthur still insisted on working with the best. But, despite this, Arthur and Cobb were not friends.

Which meant that Arthur didn’t call Cobb with the news of Eames’ death.

Cobb was still hooked into many of the networks used by dreamsharers so he learned through the vine what became of Mr. Eames. He couldn’t say he was surprised. Eames ran in very dangerous circles and took more risks than was probably necessary. Still, it was a bit sad to hear. Eames was very good at what he did and very smart. He was an amazing asset to any team, whether he was forging or extracting or simply consulting. And he always seemed to make Arthur just a bit more relaxed. Pity he wouldn’t be working with them anymore.

Saito was in a business meeting.

Arthur was someone Saito had taken quite a liking to. He was skilled, very intelligent, and capable, but not egotistical the way Dominic Cobb was. He was aware of his own abilities, but just as aware of his limits as well. And he was preservationist. He looked out for himself, made sure if anyone was to survive it would be him. He reminded Saito very much of himself. So, they’d kept in touch.

After the success of the inception on Robert Fischer, Saito had asked Arthur for a number to reach him at should he need another extraction. He made it clear that he did not wish to work with Dominic Cobb ever again, but Arthur – and anyone else he deemed acceptable – would do nicely. Arthur had assured him that he would not be working with Cobb again either. He then gave Saito an enigmatic smile and said he would be in touch. Saito never contacted Arthur, but Arthur always knew when he was needed.

This call, however, was merely a professional courtesy.

“I apologize if this is an inconvenience,” Arthur began, “I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“Of course, I have a moment,” Saito told him curiously.

“I only wished to inform you that Mr. Eames is dead. I know you trusted his work, but I assure you there are other forgers I’ve worked with who are very capable,” Arthur said and Saito wondered if he had imagined the pause before ‘dead.’

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that,” Saito said, “I trust your judgement, though.”

“Glad to hear it. I won’t keep you any longer, I just thought I would tell you now since you do request him frequently.”

“Thank you, Arthur, I appreciate that,” Saito said. With that, Arthur hung up. Saito frowned. He liked Mr. Eames. His manner was very like Arthur’s though he was much better at putting up a façade. There was something else there, too, that he couldn’t put his finger on.

His business partner stuck his head out of the conference room to call him back in. Saito put his phone away and went back into the room. He didn’t think again about the way Eames and Arthur looked at each other for many, many years.

 

Ariadne was on a plane.

Ariadne knew she was extremely privileged to possess a regular phone number she could use to contact Arthur, though she didn’t use it much. Ariadne had come to understand that Arthur enjoyed his privacy quite a bit. She was, however, something of an up-and-comer in dreamshare and many people she had never heard of tried to call her in on jobs. She only used the number she had for Arthur when she needed to know who was dangerous and who was okay to work with or on the rare few times she needed advice on a design. He was always willing to talk to her, benefit of her being his mentee she supposed, but she still avoided disturbing him unless she had to.

She was flying home for holiday break when Arthur called her. He didn’t usually call unless she left him a message or he needed her on a job. Being on a plane, her phone was off and she didn’t expect him to have left a message. She didn’t even notice until she was at baggage claim and was readying to call a cab. Puzzled, she dialed into her voicemail.

“Ariadne,” Arthur began, then paused for some time. Usually Arthur was quick to get to his purpose of calling, so this pause had Ari shaking off her travel exhaustion and listening more carefully. When his voice came back, it was softer with a hint of something that made her heart clench.

“Ariadne, Eames is dead,” Arthur’s disembodied voice said slowly, “I thought I ought to tell you myself, I know you liked him. He probably left you something in his will,” here, he broke off to let out a choked little laugh, “Though I doubt it’s anything of value. I’m heading to Mombasa now to sort out his belongings and the will, I’ll probably call you again in a few weeks when I’ve got everything sorted. Anyway,” he paused again to take a breath, “Anyway, you’re completely safe if you’re worried this has anything to do with you. And I’m sure you did spectacularly on your finals and if you didn’t, well, fortunately you don’t need a degree in this line of work. Have an excellent break and Happy Christmas.”

And that was it. Ari stared at the phone in her hand and swallowed hard and suddenly – with such clarity she wondered that she hadn’t seen it before – understood the way Eames and Arthur circled each other, never far out of the other’s reach.

 

Yusuf was in his lab.

Yusuf didn’t have a phone for people to contact him. He knew he was very sought after as a chemist in the dreamshare community, but his dream den was where he really wanted to be. If someone really needed him for a job, they knew where to find him. And by meeting them in person, he had a chance to vet them properly before choosing to work with them. When he first met Arthur, Yusuf had liked him instantly. The job he wanted to hire him for was straight-forward and as safe as anything was in their line of work, but challenging enough to be fun on the chemical level. After a roaring success with not even a scratch on any team member, Yusuf was more than happy to work with Arthur whenever he asked.

Arthur contacted him two different ways. To ask him on jobs, he would either come himself, or send Eames. Anything else, he sent a telegram. Yusuf couldn’t be surprised that Arthur knew where to find telegraph offices in every city, he wouldn’t be surprised if Arthur owned a telegraph machine himself. It had been a while without contact from either of them, though, so Yusuf assumed they were vacationing.

He was just coming up from an hour-long session watching his dreamers when he noticed the telegram on his desk. Arthur and Eames had quite a few different cyphers reserved for different levels of urgency. At first glance, he was looking at the least complicated and he thought for a moment that it was something like a postcard from wherever they were. But as he sat down to decode the message, he realized it was something else entirely. This was a cypher he had only been introduced to once before for a hypothetical situation where either Eames or Arthur was in serious trouble. It took him quite some time to work it out, but when he finally decoded it, it came across roughly as:

> E dead STOP Will informed S & A STOP Coming to Mombasa to sort out belongings and will STOP Maybe a week STOP

Yusuf sat back heavily in his chair. To anyone else, this would have read exactly how many would expect Arthur to inform colleagues of another dreamsharer’s death. But Yusuf had known Arthur and Eames, separately and together, for many years. And this brusque, impersonal telegram was all Arthur could handle at the moment. Yusuf turned on his Bunsen burner and carefully held the telegram over the flame, waiting until the paper caught before setting it on his desk to watch Arthur’s words turn to ash.

 

Arthur was there.

He was supposed to be there earlier. He was supposed to make it in time. He wasn’t supposed to arrive after they had already cleared out, after they had already covered Eames in bruises and cuts, after they had already started to bleed him out on to the cold, stone floor. Arthur was never late. This was the only time he hadn’t made it in time.

Eames was slumped, hands tied to the arms of a rough wooden chair, unable to stop the bleeding. Arthur didn’t notice the blood seeping into his trousers as he dropped to his knees in front of Eames. He cut the ropes on his wrists, closing his hands over Eames’. Eames smiled down at him.

“Darling are you getting your Versace trousers dirty for me?” he teased. Arthur glared. He stood and began to hoist Eames up with an arm over his shoulder, but Eames was a good bit stronger than Arthur and resisted his attempts to move him.

“Arthur, I’m not going to make it. You know that,” Eames said quietly. He turned and a spit a mouthful of blood on the cracked concrete. Arthur released him and dropped back to his knees.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he whispered. Eames smiled again.

“Not like you, darling, you’re always such a stickler for punctuality.”

“Stop smiling,” Arthur said. It was almost cruel that Eames was being so cavalier about this while Arthur’s entire world was shifting on its axis. Eames just smiled away.

“And let your final memory of me be less than perfectly lovely? Not a chance,” he said. Arthur sighed, holding Eames’ hands tightly between his own. There was something between his palms and he opened them for Arthur.

It was IDs. Three of them. Three IDs, taken and held while they beat him and cut him. Taken from inside pockets, jackets or pants, pulled out while his hands were tied because even at such a disadvantage, Eames could pick any pocket. Taken and held for Arthur to find because Eames knew that Arthur just might not make it in time. Held for Arthur because Eames knew that Arthur would not rest, would not mourn, until he found the men who did this. Arthur took them, pocketed them.

“Proud of your boy, darling?” Eames murmured. He was fading faster. Arthur gripped his hands again.

“Mr. Eames,” he whispered, “I’m actually impressed.” Eames laughed and it was hoarse and weak, but genuine. Arthur forced himself to look Eames in the eye.

“Don’t let me down now, Arthur,” Eames said, “I’ll be bloody disappointed if I’m not properly avenged.” Arthur shook his head, couldn’t help smiling.

“When haven’t I ever seen a job through to the end?” he said. Eames nodded. He closed his eyes and leant his head back.

“Promise you won’t put that hideous drafting table in our living room,” he said softly. He was gone before Arthur could agree.

Arthur stood and hefted Eames over his shoulder. There was still blood oozing sluggishly from his injuries, but it wasn’t as though Arthur would have ever been able to wear this suit again. He was fortunate for the cover of darkness and his foresight to park the car in an alley as he carried Eames’ body out of the warehouse.

He and Eames had discussed what was to happen in the event of either of their deaths. Eames was to be cremated and sprinkled round the gates at Buckingham Palace, more to annoy Arthur with his severe patriotism than anything else. (Arthur, had he gone first, would have been buried beside his parents with his real name on the headstone.) As he lowered Eames into the backseat, he tried to remember which of his passports wasn’t flagged in the UK. He couldn’t take the time to think about how empty their apartment in Larochette would be, how all their apartments would be empty without Eames. Instead, he ran through the names of competent forgers he’d worked with before (none as good as Eames), and debated how to send word to the others (Eames was the one who had come up with the cyphers they used to send messages) and worked out the logistics of spreading ashes around Buckingham Palace without being picked up on suspicion of terrorism (Eames would have risked a life-long sentence in a federal prison to sneak into the US to bring Arthur to his family plot in Chicago). And as soon as Eames became a pile of ashes, he was going to reduce the three men who killed him to the same state. After that, then, maybe, he could take the time to mourn properly.

He pulled out on to the highway, joining the scant few other people with places to get to at this hour. His headlights became another smudge of brightness on the dark asphalt, his car became unremarkable. He drove the speed limit, his clear eyes never wavering from the road. And no one would guess that Arthur’s entire reality had collapsed only minutes before.


End file.
